


Heartstring

by lizreadseverything



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: AU: I do what I want, Canon-Typical Violence, Fate & Destiny, Fluff and Crack, Humor, I was planning on posting this anyway the quarantine readership is just a sick bonus (heh), Idiots in Love, Light Angst, Love these two morons, M/M, Pining, Quests, Slow Burn (ish), Soul Bond, maybe the REAL true love was the friends we made along the way, oh boy first witcher fic here we GO, this is my world with two imported Disaster Bis, writing geralt is easy because he never says anything, writing jaskier is easy because he's just my internal monologue, yes they will bang eventually no they don't bang in the first chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:49:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23219533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizreadseverything/pseuds/lizreadseverything
Summary: The king clears his throat. “Do you know why I summoned you, Witcher?”“No.” Geralt says so gruffly that Jaskier kicks him under the table. With a withering glare at Jaskier, Geralt adds, “Why.” It’s not a question. Jaskier wants to kick him under the table again. Just because Geralt’s a Big Bad Witcher, it doesn’t mean he can be rude to the people that can and will have Jaskier’s painfully mortal head chopped off. Geralt gives him a look that says,interfere again andIwill chop your head off with my scary swords and scary biceps.Or: How Geralt and Jaskier fumble their way through an epic quest and into a lifelong commitment.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 9
Kudos: 84





	Heartstring

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rias29](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rias29/gifts), [Severns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severns/gifts).



> This is my first fic for The Witcher. I really have no concept of lore, so if you are a Really Big Fan, feel free to leave some pointers! Otherwise, this is just a vaguely witcher-shaped world. Witcher LaCroix. Whatever. The great thing about Just Making Shit Up is that this can fit anywhere into canon! I pictured Jaskier still kinda young, but he doesn't actually age, so...
> 
> PS: THIS CHAPTER IS NOT EXPLICIT. RATING FOR LATER CHAPTERS. 
> 
> PPS: All the unrecognizable elements are mine, but if Netflix is interested in What The People Actually Want, they can have their people talk to my people.

On some level, Jaskier is aware that he’s dreaming. In real life, beautiful women don’t hand-feed him fruit while he lounges luxuriously on a velvet and gold settee draped in silks. At least, not yet. He’s only a ballad or two from such earthly pleasures, of course, but at the moment, he contents himself to an existence that is decidedly more pedestrian. So he tries to relish in the enchanting atmosphere of the not-quite-reality, but something is off. Years ago, the dream would have been perfect in every way, but now Jaskier frowns to himself and looks around the golden, airy room, declining a grape offered to him by a particularly stunning muse. Money? Check. Women? Check. Fashion and other material comforts? Check. Complete and total adoration? Check. Still, he can’t quite get comfortable in his silks, even though they match the settee delightfully. Is it his lute? No, that’s propped up against the golden side table supporting a glass of the finest wine and a marble bust of himself.  _ Nice _ , he thinks momentarily, but then furrows his brow when the uncomfortable sensation of missing something prickles at his skin.

“What’s wrong with me?” He asks the statue. It remains silent. “Why am I not happy?” 

As if in response, the room starts to shake. The muses scream and run for cover as parts of the ceiling begin to fall. Jaskier is rooted to his seat, paralyzed by the statue’s gaze. After another shake, the bust splits down the middle, and the last thing Jaskier sees is his own head crumbling to dust.

When he wakes up, the world is still shaking. No, he realizes. It’s just him shaking. Or, rather, someone shaking  _ him.  _

“Jaskier,” a voice says gruffly. He knows that voice.

“Oh,” he breathes. It’s Geralt. They maintain eye contact for a beat too long. “Good morning, Geralt.”

Geralt frowns at him, but that might just be his default facial expression. “It’s four o’clock. In the afternoon.”

The world jostles again, and Jaskier realizes they’re on horseback. “Where are we?”

“Forest,” Geralt elaborates helpfully. It’s true; they’re surrounded by trees, except for the narrow dirt path Roach is trotting on. 

“Where are we going?” Jaskier asks, only slightly annoyed that Geralt has relapsed into one-word responses. The first month of their travels, the Witcher had only spoken 35 words to him, 10 of which were “quiet”. He had tried so hard out of the goodness of his heart to rehabilitate Geralt to the point of normal human interactions, but sometimes it seemed like he was a lost cause, even for a particularly verbose bard. 

“Castle,” is the response from the man sitting in front of him.

“How informative you are today,” Jaskier says sarcastically. “Luckily, as I am not only a master bard but a well-cultured intellectual--” --he pointedly ignores Geralt’s snort-- “--I shall simply endeavor to deduce our current location and future destination.”

He picks up his lute from a side bag, even as Geralt stiffens when he hears Jaskier strum a chord. “Where are we?” he muses to the lute. He gets a C-major chord in response. “Temeria, you say?” He says good-naturedly. “Why, you clever thing. How did you know?”

Geralt almost stops the horse. “Not even close.” But the revelation is too late; Jaskier has decided on the topic of his ballad.

“ _ Temeria, Temeria, it rhymes with femeria, better be careful or you’ll catch malaria… _ ” Jaskier sings. 

“Stop.” 

“ _ It’s got the best whores in any given area, and they have the finest genitalia…” _

Geralt does actually stop Roach, and twists around to stare disapprovingly at Jaskier. “No more singing.”

Jaskier scoffs. As if a lowly Witcher could halt the sacred and transformative ritual of the dissemination of art, mankind’s greatest and most powerful gift. He tells Geralt so. 

“No singing.” Geralt repeats, rather petulantly, in Jaskier’s humble opinion. 

“You, sir, are an enemy of culture.” Jaskier proclaims.

“Hm.” 

Jaskier puts his lute back, anyway, and Geralt urges Roach forward. He picks at some fuzz on Geralt’s armor. At least, he hopes it’s fuzz, and not the fur of some poisonous beast that Geralt unceremoniously killed. Geralt reaches his hand back to slap Jaskier’s away. Jaskier pouts.

“You’re just mad that I was singing of whores. That, by the way, is supremely ironic, because you have taken more whores than I have. We’re all lucky you’ve not died; if you did, they’d surely close every brothel on the continent in mourning,” Jaskier says, resting his cheek on Geralt’s back. He wrinkles his nose. Geralt’s armor stinks.

“Hm,” Geralt says. 

They’re silent for a while, Jaskier leaning on Geralt, trying to recognize whichever godsforsaken forest they’ve had the misfortune of wandering into this time. He only vaguely remembers starting this journey. He was probably sloshed in a tavern somewhere when Geralt was going over the finer details with whichever contractor needed a monster killed.

“Well,” Jaskier says when he sees what looks like the same tree for the sixth time. “If you won’t let me play my lute, will you at least tell me where we’re going?” 

“Castle,” Geralt repeats. Jaskier wants to strangle him.

“Yes,  _ thank you,  _ but I was hoping you’d be more specific, seeing as there are hundreds of castles on the continent.”

They pass the tree again. Jaskier considers beating himself senseless with his lute. Instead, he tightens his arms around Geralt’s waist and is opening his mouth again to shout some obscenity when Geralt holds up a hand.

“Almost there.” 

Jaskier closes his mouth, but he’s not happy about it.

Half of him is angry at Geralt for being so insufferable, but all of him rejoices when Roach follows the dirt path out of the forest and into a pleasant looking valley. They’re on top of a hill which slopes lazily down to a village and back up again to a castle. It’s quaint. 

They ride down to the village, which, according to a weather-beaten wooden sign, is called “Wioska”. Jaskier narrows his eyes and tries to remember if anything is familiar, but the buildings are so generic that he sees a thousand similar towns in his mind’s eye. He’s very well traveled. When they pass the village tavern (which is helpfully labeled “Village Tavern”), one of the maids stares at them so intently that she almost drops her drink when she walks into a wall. Another gasps.  _ Very well traveled indeed, _ he thinks to himself smugly, but he doesn’t remember the women’s faces like he usually remembers conquests. Has he been here before or not? He tries to get off of Roach and get to the bar to find out (ok, mostly to get a drink, same difference), but Geralt very rudely refuses to stop the horse, just roughly pulls Jaskier back upright.

“Wait, why are we not stopping at the tavern? We always stop at the tavern. You remember taverns, right? They have all the beer. Geralt,” he says anxiously, and pokes the Witcher’s shoulder. “Geralt. Beer.”

Geralt grunts again, and Jaskier has just about had it with this trip. He bristles quietly as the buildings along the main road pass them by. Fine. Just fine. Maybe they’ll go back to the tavern after meeting with whatever helpless soul Geralt’s savior complex has found this time. But this meeting had better be short. And Jaskier is so calling first bath. Even though Geralt stinks. Literally and metaphorically. 

But they don’t stop at any of the houses, not even the decrepit ones with the creepy old people in the windows. Ew. Roach just keeps trotting until they are out of the village. Jaskier gapes at Geralt’s back.

“Was that not it? Hello, Geralt? Geralt? Ger bear? The village, Geralt,  _ the beer,  _ Geralt--”

“Don’t call me that,” Geralt grumbles as Roach starts up the hill, leaving Jaskier’s will to live fading into the distance with the village.

“Well, then, tell me where on the continent we’re going!” Jaskier demands. He’s not really in the position to be making demands, because in reality he’s completely useless and both of them know it. He makes demands anyway, because Geralt lets him. “And if you just say ‘castle’ one more time, I swear to Melitele I--” 

“Castle,” Geralt says smugly. Jaskier can hear the laugh in his voice. Bastard. Rotten bastard. In his head, he starts planning the nastiest, most scathing ballad ever written. There are multiple verses about Geralt’s propensity to offend innocent nostrils. He rhymes “Geralt” with “assault”, because he’s a lyrical genius and a poet. See if  _ any _ Witcher ever gets a coin again. Ever.

Roach meanders to the top of the hill. Where there is a castle. It’s painfully generic in appearance, with gray stone and not much else of note, but it  _ is _ a castle.

“Ger bear,” Jaskier breathes. “ _ Please  _ tell me this is the castle.”

“Hm,” Geralt says. Smug bastard. They pass through the open gates and into the gatehouse. Finally, blessedly, Roach stops. Geralt hops off effortlessly, then helps Jaskier down. A boy comes up to bring Roach into the stables, and Jaskier grabs his lute before they go into the main hall. Just in case. Judging by the bland atmosphere of the entrance hall, he’s probably going to have to break out some tunes for entertainment, because this is  _ not  _ a party castle. It’s barely a dinner party castle. It lacks personality altogether. 

“Needs more tapestries,” Jaskier says to himself. “And more gold accents.” Geralt makes no acknowledgement, but Jaskier knows he secretly agrees, because they always agree on the important things.  _ And a good cleaning,  _ he thinks but is not quite rude enough to say out loud. The only thing differentiating the inside of the castle from the outside is the color of the dirt on the walls. Jaskier wrinkles his nose.

The great hall is similarly (un)decorated, but at least the lighting is better. And there’s a chandelier. Someone is lounging on the king’s chair in the back. It’s quite possible his appearance is as tasteless as the decor— his long hair is brown either by nature or neglect, and there is a scraggly beard mauling the bottom quarter of his face. His crown is lopsided, and further shifts drunkenly on his head when he straightens. 

“Witcher!” He calls loudly, and clunks a goblet down on the table in front of him. “I knew you would come.” 

“You summoned me,” Geralt says dryly. 

“Indeed I did,” the king concedes. He turns to a bored looking servant leaning against a wall. “You, tell the kitchens that we’ll all be taking lunch in my quarters.” The servant snaps to attention, bows, and scuttles off. “Come, this way,” he gestures. They follow him out of the great hall and down a dingy corridor that could really use an accent rug. The castle would be much less monotonous and confusing if it were actually furnished.

The king’s quarters are apparently not his bedroom, as Jaskier had feared. He’s seen quite enough royal bedrooms for one lifetime. The door they stop in front of is more of a drawing room, a place for strategy or advisory meetings. There’s one massive table lined with chairs that takes up most of the space, and the walls are covered in different maps. Some have knives sticking out of them. Jaskier resolves not to ask about the kingdoms which have been stabbed. At least there’s another chandelier.

“Please,” the king says, waving his hand at the chairs. “Sit.”

The king takes his place at the head of the table. Geralt chooses a chair at the opposite end. Neither man acknowledges the awkward amount of empty space along the length of the table. Jaskier tries to take a seat to Geralt’s right, but the large wooden chair is either so heavy or so seldom used that he can’t move it. He struggles embarrassingly for a few seconds before Geralt sighs and gets back up to pull out Jaskier’s chair for him. Jaskier flashes him a sheepish smile. Geralt remains frowning, and then pushes him in like he’s a child. Jaskier shoots him a dirty look, but his insides do something odd when he sees the laughter in Geralt’s eyes. 

When they’re finally all seated, the door opens again; Jaskier pretends he’s not interested in whoever is entering. Really, he’s trapped between the table and the back of his chair and can’t move. Fucking Geralt.

It turns out to be the best case scenario, which is food. A faceless servant places gleaming silver dishes in front of them, and Jaskier doesn’t even care that this ugly castle is probably covered with dust all the way down to the kitchens. He doesn’t even care that he doesn’t even know why they’re here or if he’s been here before. Or, quite frankly, what he’s about to eat. It’s warm and decidedly not charred on a stick à la Geralt. 

Despite his ravenous and almost indiscriminate hunger, he does wait for the king at the other end of the table to start eating before picking up his fork, because he wasn’t raised by wolves. Unlike some white haired lupine almost-men he could name. For all of his years and experience, Geralt still looks mildly uncomfortable whenever he has to eat something with actual silverware. Jaskier barely resists the urge to fix how Geralt’s holding his fork as he cuts into the meat. Whatever they were doing in Kaer Morhen, it was probably the opposite of dinner parties.

The food is delicious, but even if it weren’t Jaskier wouldn’t be able to tell the difference, because it is hot and not because of a shitty campfire. There’s even some sort of vegetable on the plate next to the potatoes. Geralt is done wolfing down his food by the time Jaskier looks up to take a sip of wine. Yeah, he definitely hasn’t been to any dinner parties this century. The thought of Geralt in a silk cravat by his own volition is enough to make Jaskier have a hard time swallowing his wine. He disguises his choked laugh as a cough, and Geralt glares at him like Witchers can read minds.

That would be horrible for Geralt, because right now Jaskier is picturing him with powdered cheeks and his hair done up with pink bows. Jaskier’s bottom lip quivers, and he bites it so he won’t make a fool of himself in front of royalty. Although, honestly, he’s been more embarrassed in front of more illustrious kings. At least right now everyone is fully clothed.

The rest of the meal is silent and exceedingly awkward. Geralt is watching him eat, which somehow makes Jaskier self-conscious. He concentrates so hard on not meeting Geralt’s gaze his fork misses his mouth and gets food on his cheek. Geralt wordlessly hands him a cloth napkin, and Jaskier wordlessly thinks about strangling himself with it. 

Finally, the servants come to clear the places, which is a blessed distraction from Geralt’s stupid golden eyes. 

The king clears his throat. “Do you know why I summoned you, Witcher?”

“No.” Geralt says so gruffly that Jaskier kicks him under the table. With a withering glare at Jaskier, Geralt adds, “Why.” It’s not a question. Jaskier wants to kick him under the table again. Just because Geralt’s a Big Bad Witcher, it doesn’t mean he can be rude to the people that can and will have Jaskier’s painfully mortal head chopped off. Geralt gives him a look that says,  _ interfere again and  _ I  _ will chop your head off with my scary swords and scary biceps.  _

There’s a knock at the door when the king starts to respond. He looks confused, which is probably not a good sign.

There’s the sound of the great doors opening, and although Jaskier can’t see who enters, he does see the king straighten until he’s rigid in his chair. Oh, so not a good sign.

“My lord,” comes a pinched, stiff female voice. “I-- I heard we had visitors.”

“They are here on my business,” the king says equally stiffly. Despite the alcohol he’s obviously liberally consumed, his words are sharp.

“Oh.” The voice says softly. “I just wanted to see.” Jaskier wiggles in an admittedly undignified manner so he can turn to look. Geralt sees him struggling, and raises an eyebrow. 

_ Who is it?  _ Jaskier mouths at him. Geralt frowns.

_ The queen.  _

Jaskier’s eyes threaten to pop out of his head. No wonder the castle’s so miserable. The tension in the air is unfit for human life. He wiggles slightly faster, trying to dislodge the chair. He’s got to see the queen. This drama is screaming to be immortalized in a tragic ballad. It’s been a while since he wrote a sad song, he realizes. This could be his big break.

“It’s just been so long since there have been… visitors.” The queen half-whispers sadly. Jaskier’s heart breaks. 

The king seems to audibly bristle. “They’re here on business,” he repeats.

The atmosphere in the room is so painfully strained that even Geralt’s usual stoic visage looks uncomfortable. Jaskier is  _ dying  _ to get out of his chair so he can scope out the action. He’s definitely Team Queen right now. Finally, he scoots down in his chair until his legs get purchase of Geralt’s under the table, and he pushes off of them so hard that Geralt’s fork clatters to the table and Jaskier’s chair screeches as it scrapes backward just enough for him to move.

Unfortunately, the combined noise of the silverware on wood and chair on stone is enough to break the royalty out of their dramatic showdown. They both turn immediately to Jaskier, who tries to look as dignified as possible and not at all disoriented from physically fighting a piece of furniture.

The queen is probably one of the most gorgeous women Jaskier’s ever seen. Her hair, unlike the rest of the castle, is perfectly manicured and a vibrant auburn. Jaskier is instantly jealous. She also has large, honey-brown eyes, and looks so beautiful in a peach colored dress that he wants to weep. How did this goddess end up with the slob at the other end of the table?

Her eyes find his. She gasps. Jaskier scarcely has time to think  _ oh, shit  _ before she practically runs to him, her face alight.

“Jaskier!” She says, and hugs him.  _ Fuck,  _ he thinks.  _ Fuck fuck fuck.  _ Across the table, Geralt is shooting him murder eyes. Jaskier doesn’t even want to think about how the king’s face looks right now.  _ Fuck.  _ His head is so getting chopped off. 

“Jaskier,” the queen breathes. “I can’t believe you came back.” 

Luckily, two of Jaskier’s three main talents are flirting and self preservation (the third is, of course, never getting calluses on his fingers no matter how much he plays the lute), so his mouth goes off on its own while his brain tries to sort out what the hell is happening. 

“Of course,” says Jaskier’s mouth, while the rest of his brainpower is sorting through years of red headed queens. There are more than originally anticipated. “I said I would.” He has no idea if he actually promised to return to this lovely woman, but it does sound like something he would say in the throes of passion. Jaskier likes to leave all of his doors open just in case. 

The queen beams at him, and that’s enough that there’s a flicker of recognition in his brain which is confirmed when the king bites out “Emnilda.”

Now that he knows he knows the queen, he’s both relieved and horrified. Relieved, because he did not sleep with her. Horrified, because however beautiful she is right now, she has never looked more miserable or out of place. They had met when he was younger, much younger, barely old enough to take on the world one tavern at a time. She was in the back of some nameless shithole, crying her eyes out. She’d been so distraught that she hadn’t noticed him sit down across from her, or that he was covered in bits of rotting produce. Even in the midst of a hell of a mid-youth crisis, she was so stunning that when she finally looked up to see who shared her booth that he had been truly lost for words. Jaskier always had a knack for seeking out beautiful, broken people.

Emnilda, princess Emnilda of some kingdom or another, she had said she was. He asked her why she was crying, even though asking women why they were crying was playing with fire. She was to be betrothed and married in short order, she explained, and looked slightly comforted by the fact that someone, even a stranger, wanted to listen to her speak. She didn’t want to be married, not then or ever, not when there was so much of the world to explore, so she had run away. Jaskier had said that he understood, because he had, and sang her a song about growing up and escaping. It was one of his firsts, composed on the wagon ride he’d hitched out of his town.

And because Jaskier is not only charming but also a good friend, the two of them had left the rundown tavern the next morning and had set out for whatever town they stumbled upon next. They spent a month at large in the continent, until, as if by fate, they ended back up Emnilda’s kingdom, and her parents were so overjoyed to see her they forgot all about her gallivanting about in a most undignified manner. Of course, they immediately insisted on marrying her off, anyway. Jaskier had offered to sneak her out of the castle, but Emnilda had waved him off, and said the best thing he could do for her would be to play at the wedding ceremony. He did, and hid his tears quite valiantly in the sleeves of his doublet. 

It’s no wonder he didn’t recognize the woman before him as one of his first friends. She seems like a hollow version of herself, withdrawn and receding. “Emmy,” he says, and pulls her into a hug again. 

He’s about to start crying and then punch the king in the face when he sees how stiff Geralt is in his chair, watching the two of them like he would watch an approaching kikimora. Jaskier rolls his eyes internally. 

“Geralt,” he says pleasantly, ignoring the king who really should be making the introductions, “this is one of my oldest  _ friends _ , Queen Emnilda. We met when I was just embarking upon my illustrious musical career.” He locks eyes with him, and tries to convey  _ no, we did not fuck, so knock it off  _ with his gaze. Geralt at least has the decency to deflate. “Emnilda,” Jaskier continues, “this is my witcher, Geralt.” 

Geralt doesn’t even react to that statement, which is interesting. Supremely interesting, really, considering the fact that Geralt resents even being seen as someone’s acquaintance. He can’t ponder the implications any further because the poor excuse for a man at the other end of the table splutters. 

“Emnilda,” the king says angrily. “You know this-- this  _ bard?”  _ Jaskier narrows his eyes. Rude. He’s not just some bard in a dirty tavern somewhere any longer. He’s  _ renowned.  _ He’s got  _ fans.  _

“Casimir,” the queen returns icily. “Of  _ course  _ I know him. He’s not just some  _ bard _ , he’s  _ Jaskier.  _ My friend and favorite musician, who played at our  _ wedding.”  _ Even Geralt winces slightly at her tone. The king looks appropriately ashamed. “Jas, darling, when you’re done with this “business”, come find me, and we’ll catch up. Princess Pivetta’s been dying to hear you live, you know.” And with that, Emnilda leaves. 

The room is silent in her wake. Geralt seems content to stew in the awkwardness, and Jaskier thinks it an apt punishment for the king, so he makes no move to encourage conversation. 

King Casimir puts his head into his hands, nearly displacing his wine goblet with his elbow. Jaskier frowns at his crown and his messy hair.

“That,” the king says, “is why I summoned you, witcher.”

“For  _ relationship advice? _ ” Jaskier asks before he can stop himself. “You want to ask the great  _ White Wolf _ , the mighty slayer of beasts and demons, for  _ marital counseling?  _ He hasn’t had a relationship since-- actually, Geralt, have you  _ ever  _ had a relationship based off of anything other than a saviour complex? What do you think they do at Kaer Morhen, trust falls? Discuss healthy boundaries and communication? You think they all get together and willingly talk about their  _ feelings?  _ Do you  _ really  _ think that--”

“Jaskier.” Ok, he might have gone a little too far. Geralt looks vaguely constipated. 

The king coughs. “No, I don’t want ‘relationship advice’. I have a, er, different request.”

_ That’s a shame,  _ Jaskier thinks.  _ You really fucking need all the help you can get with your marriage.  _ He’s had one-night-stands with more open communication than this. 

“I would like,” the king starts, and takes a deep breath, “for you to retrieve for me the Heartstring.”

Once again, the room is silent. Jaskier would make a witty remark, but he has no idea what the hell a “Heartstring” is. Geralt obviously does, because he looks physically pained at it being mentioned.

“No.” Geralt says, and stands. He must remember that Jaskier is not going to get out of his chair with all of his dignity intact, so Geralt pulls his chair out for him so they can both walk for the door. Jaskier is exceedingly confused. Geralt never denies a job, particularly not for royalty who can pay substantially more than ten commoners with haunted wells. Geralt has his hand reaching for the door when the king stands, too.

“Wait!” He cries. “I’ll pay you whatever you want.”

That gets Jaskier to stop, because hello, whatever he wants? That’s a pretty dangerous thing to say. Geralt, however, opens the door.

“Geralt,” Jaskier hisses. “What the fuck?”

Geralt looks at him angrily, then even more angrily back at the king. “I said  _ no _ . I won’t do it.”

“One million gold pieces.” The king says. Jaskier’s hand twitches so hard he accidentally plucks a string on his lute.

“No.” Jaskier gapes at Geralt. 

“Two million, then. An estate. A place at court.  _ Anything.  _ Name your price, witcher.”

_ Holy fuck,  _ Jaskier mouths to himself. 

“No.” Geralt says, and stalks off into the hallway.

Jaskier whips his head back around to look at the king, who looks just as dumbfounded as he feels. Geralt is not in the habit of turning down jobs. Jaskier doesn’t think witchers are even allowed to do that. There was probably some sort of blood oath mixed in with all the creepy rituals. Or at least Geralt’s own moral code, which had sworn him to certain, er, undesirable situations before. 

“Bard,” the king says desperately. Normally Jaskier would snap something pithy about actually having a name, but he’s kind of freaking out internally because Geralt just fucking left him in this dusty castle and turned down work when three days ago Jaskier had to stop him from boiling his own boot leather in a fucking stew. “This is urgent,” the king continues, oblivious to Jaskier’s crisis. Typical self-absorbed royalty. “You must convince him. I’ll give him anything. I’ll give  _ you  _ anything!”

That’s really a bad thing to say, considering Jaskier’s marked lack of self-control and also of worldly possessions. He could really do with a nice lute case so that Geralt can stop fucking up the wood with dirt and assorted monster guts. Geralt would probably put his foot down about a carriage, but it really would be so much more convenient for everyone…

He can imagine the two of them in style, traveling because Geralt’s thing for slaughtering beasts is just a personality quirk and not the only way he can survive. Touring the continent at leisure, getting sparkly things at the markets, holding hands as they-- ok, Geralt would never hold his hand. He “needs it to defend himself at all times” or whatever. The point is, neither of them are in a position to be turning down half a ducat, much less whatever a king can afford to splash out. He swallows.

“I’ll talk to him.” Jaskier says, and tries to escape. The king only looks slightly appeased. Jaskier’s three quarters out of the door when the king starts speaking again. 

“If it would help to know,” the king starts, his voice cracking, “it’s for my wife. It’s the only way.”

Jaskier shuts the door without acknowledging him, and speed walks down the hall. He tries to retrace his steps back out of the castle, but the lack of decor is messing up his sense of direction. Every drab stone wall looks the same as every other drab stone wall. He’s cursing the royal interior designer when he stumbles into the main entrance, where Queen Emnilda is wistfully staring out at the courtyard. She turns as his footsteps echo on the stone. 

“Jaskier, my old friend. Are you to leave so soon?” She is so sad and withdrawn that Jaskier can’t even think of a reply. Good gods, what happened to her? He walks over to give her a fierce hug. 

“I’m not going. I’ve just got to work something out with Geralt.”

She tilts her head, considering, but then nods. “I understand. Traveling can be hard on any relationship. Why don’t you both stay in the castle? We have more than enough empty rooms.” 

Jaskier really wants to correct her, say that he and Geralt are absolutely  _ not  _ in a relationship, but the prospect of staying in a bedroom with an actual mattress and mattress frame and curtains instead of a glorified pigsty with a chamber pot is overwhelming, so he pats Emnilda on the arm and thanks her for her generosity and tells her he’ll be back in time for supper, which makes her beam. Then he goes outside to find Geralt. 

“Geralt,” he calls out to the stables. “I know you didn’t actually leave me here! That would be rude!” 

“Jaskier,” comes Geralt’s voice from behind. “What are you doing. Let’s go.” Jaskier turns and finds him leading Roach out of the castle gates. He has to quicken his pace to catch up.

When they leave the castle behind and make toward the village, Geralt seems to remember that Jaskier is ill-disposed to walking medium-to-long distances, and picks him up by the waist to settle the bard on Roach’s back.

“Hey!” Jaskier says. “I can walk, you know, it’s not that far. I’m not a child.” He’s pouting like one, but thankfully Geralt doesn’t comment. 

“You’ll ruin your shoes,” Geralt mumbles, eyes straight ahead on the path. 

Jaskier looks down. He is wearing his blue ones that match his doublet delightfully. His heart does something odd and stabby but warm at the same time when he realizes that Geralt notices these things. It’s so easy to assume that Geralt tunes out every part of the world not actively trying to kill him, but that’s not true. At least, not when it comes to Jaskier’s habits or his tastes or his stupid fabric shoes that aren’t even important.

Geralt leads them back to the village tavern, which only surprises Jaskier until he sees that Geralt looks like he needs about ten pints. The lines of his face are solemn, a look usually reserved for after a particularly gruesome battle. Jaskier has never been patient to begin with, but he’s dying to know what could make Geralt so distressed just by being mentioned. The witcher’s emotions have to be strong to present themselves visually.

The tavern is dark and cave-like despite it being a bright mid-afternoon in the spring. Jaskier takes comfort in that every tavern on the continent looks exactly the same. They settle into a booth in the back so Geralt can watch the door and Jaskier can watch the other bar patrons gossip. Old habits. He waves over a barmaid.

“We just ate,” Geralt says. 

“I know you’re still hungry,” Jaskier replies snootily, because if he’s still hungry, Geralt must be ravenous. He doesn’t think witchers can be full, especially witchers who are accustomed to eating nothing for extended periods of time. Geralt hums at him, but lets Jaskier order anyway. 

Geralt is silent until the food and drinks come, then silent as he eats. They’re still sitting in silence when the barmaid returns to take away their empty dishes. Jaskier’s used to Geralt not speaking, of course, but it’s aggravating when Jaskier knows there’s something they urgently need to discuss.

Jaskier sets down his pint with slightly more force than usual, and Geralt’s head comes up from gazing absently at the grain of the table. “Geralt,” Jaskier begins, his tone aiming for stern but falling somewhere around exasperated. “I know it’s against the Witcher Code of Honor, but for once in your life, would you please tell me what the hell is going on?” 

Geralt’s brow furrows. He’s probably going to start explaining that witchers don’t have a Code of Honor or something, so Jaskier cuts him off. “Why are we running away?”

That makes Geralt really frown. “We’re not running away.”

“Yes we are,” Jaskier snorts. “You never turn down a job.”

Geralt looks angry, but Jaskier knows by now that it’s actually confusion. “I’ve turned down jobs before.”

“No you haven’t.” Honestly, why would Geralt question him on this? It’s literally Jaskier’s job to keep track of Geralt’s. 

“What about that old man in Kaedwen?”

Jaskier shakes his head. “With the haunted grain silo that turned out to be that thing with the fangs? No, you took that job. You refused  _ payment  _ for that job, because all the blood ruined his grain store.” Geralt looks shocked.

“That can’t be right,” Geralt mumbles. “I say no all the time.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier says gently, because it must be hard for the White Wolf to realize he’s really the White Fluffy Bunnyrabbit, “all you do is help people. You never turn away anyone who needs you.”

Geralt slaps his hand on the table. “What about that noble from Cintra? I said no, and then I punched him in the face.”

Why does he even bother with this man? “That’s because his ‘job’ was killing an innocent family so he could usurp their land.” Geralt narrows his eyes. “You punched him because he tried to take a sip of your beer. He was piss drunk.” 

“What about--”

“Geralt. You always take the job. Trust me. Either you need the money, or you need to soothe whatever instinct to protect the weak. This is the first time you have actually refused and meant it, and I would like to know _ what the fuck is up _ .” Jaskier says. 

Geralt doesn’t seem satisfied, but then he never is. “This is a fool’s errand,” he says. “Only those with a death wish would do it. Witcher or not, doesn’t matter.”

“Why?” asks Jaskier.

Geralt gives him the “I’m done explaining” face. “It’s impossible.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “ _ What’s  _ impossible?”

“Getting the Heartstring.” Geralt replies, like Jaskier is stupid. 

“Which is?”

Geralt gives a sigh that can only be described as long suffering. “A myth. Apparently there’s a forest in the west that is infested with demons, and anyone who enters is eaten.” Geralt scowls. “It’s not true.” There’s more of a story here, Jaskier knows.

“But?”

“But everyone who’s tried has never come back out. Including witchers.” The way he says “witchers” has a shiver going up Jaskier’s spine. 

“So why won’t you do it? You’ve faced worse odds.”

“No.” Geralt says simply, like that solves everything. 

They lapse back into silence, the chatter of the bar as it fills like white noise. Geralt is lost in thought, or maybe counting the bubbles at the bottom of his glass. Jaskier is thinking about what the king said. 

“The king said it was the only way to help his wife.”

Geralt snorts at that. “She needs help, but not from a Heartstring.”

Jaskier glares at him. Geralt stares back, realizes that Jaskier is too stubborn to budge without an explanation, and sighs again. 

“The Heartstring is  _ supposedly  _ a magical thread made from the heart tendons of the pure.” 

Jaskier must look horrified, because Geralt rolls his eyes. “The pożeracze, the demons, eat the hearts of the impure. They save the heart of the pure to make the Heartstring.”

Jaskier wants to throw up. “And we want the human organ string  _ why? _ ”

“It’s magic. They say it can bind two souls together.” Somehow, it seems like  _ that  _ concept is the one that makes Geralt the most uncomfortable.

Jaskier wrinkles his nose. “Don’t we already have love potions? Or spells?”

“Not as effective. The Heartstring is supposed to be one of the darkest forms of magic. It doesn’t wear off, and it can’t be reversed. It will even bind two unwilling souls.”

“Hm,” Jaskier says, even though usually that’s Geralt’s line. “You’re right.”

Geralt looks shaken. “What?”

“You’re right,” Jaskier says again. “We definitely shouldn’t do this. It sounds entirely unethical.”

“Unethical?” Geralt says, like he’s never heard the word before. 

Jaskier frowns at him. “Yes, unethical. Especially if the king wants to use this Heartstring business to keep him tied to Emnilda.” Jaskier has a (well-cultivated) reputation for being a romantic, but he can’t stand coercion of any form. That’s the opposite of romantic. A permanent bond between two _ unwilling souls  _ creeps him out. Especially if one of those souls is a friend trapped in a dreary, depressing castle with a dreary, depressing husband. 

“Hm,” Geralt says.

“Well, that about decides it,” Jaskier declares, and stands up. He places his coin sack on the table, and pats Geralt on the head. 

“Decides what? Where are you going?” Geralt asks.

Jaskier waves him off, and starts walking. “I’m going to go facilitate a royal divorce.”


End file.
